Call me contra mundum, but I couldn’t bear to drive in the parking lot of Anthony’s Pier 4, much less eat there. So don’t expect this girl to weep even a little bit for this circa 1963 restaurant that finally closed its doors tonight.

Popovers, shmopovers.

Before I begin this screed against ye olde seafood shanty on Boston Harbor, I need to remind readers that I am a student of history. I devote hours of my time and throw lots of money at preserving the past as well as precious farmland in Westport, home of my ancestors.  I like old things — houses, furniture, recipes and a certain Boston ballpark.

But a 50-year old Boston eatery with a (now late) cantankerous owner and over-salted food? I don’t even care that my life guru, Julia Child, had her fading photo up on the wall. It was no Locke-Ober — to me anyway. Raze the damn thing.

I spent a career trying to avoid the place after the owner, Anthony Athanas, cussed me out after I dared to question his bookkeeper about an extra charge on a bill after a Society of Professional Journalists dinner. After his rant, he told me he didn’t want our business and didn’t care if we returned. We didn’t. However, sadly, I had to darken the doorway many times over 25 years while doing my job.

Once, my partner, Gayle Fee, and I were forced into some frivolity at Anthony’s on one of the hottest days of the summer. Instead of moving the party inside into the air conditioning, we had to do that thing that we did outside on the patio where there was a raw bar fermenting in the sun.

Ever smell an over-ripe raw bar? It’s like low-tide. Only with cocktail sauce. But for some reason, Gayle, whose olfactory glands were on holiday, couldn’t stop herself.

“STEP AWAY FROM THE RAW BAR,” I growled, grabbing her arm as she whisked past me.

“Why,” she quizzed, rolling her eyes.

“Take a good whiff, will ya?”

And then, pffft, we were gone.

Another time there was a bug — one that is common in city apartments — crawling up the arm of one of our colleagues at another Anthony’s “soiree.” Again, it made for a hasty exit.

Besides that ripe raw bar and creepy crawlies, the food just wasn’t good. But of course it didn’t have to be because Pier 4 was in a killer location, and, for decades, it was the only game in town save for Locke-Ober and Cafe Budapest.

The over-hyped popovers were tasteless, the Ritz Crackers and pot of orange cheese on the table were from 1963, and the entrees and chowder would send your sodium level into the stratosphere.

My father surmised at my cousin’s wedding reception at Anthony’s 20 years ago that the cooks were so old that they had lost their taste buds so they oversalted. At the time, I scoffed at the idea. Now, he sounds like a genius.

BTW, I’m holding steady in my belief that Julia only posed with Anthony Athanas for that photo to be nice. The French Chef was like that. Maybe in my next life…

 

Tags: #AnthonyAthanas, #LauraRaposa, #pier4, #TheFoodsmith